


A Good Rain

by sheffiesharpe



Category: Vinland Saga
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-11
Updated: 2009-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheffiesharpe/pseuds/sheffiesharpe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows Purpose, Snow, and How Slow His Steps</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Rain

The damnable thing about assassins, Askeladd says, is that when you succeed, no one trusts you. He glances in Thorfinn’s direction and grins. When you don’t, well—there’s no one to speak for the dead man’s body. And then he grins harder. No one to even put a name on the body, though everyone is certain someone knows who he is. Was. It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing recognizable left. Askeladd’s making an example of it, and Bjorn watches from the window, jealous, somehow. He’s never been one to make much sport of the dead—he was almost a corpse himself, and there’s no challenge in hacking apart a dead man. It’s never amused him, but now—now his knuckles itch with the want to gouge and tear with his bare hands. He doesn’t know where the feeling comes from—so concentrated on that one dead, dark-clad man who is not a challenge anymore at all. But he isn’t going outside, not to join, not for anything, not right now.

The prince is working at his table, moving those pale pages of lists and orders around and around, and Bjorn catches him looking over his shoulder at the door more than once. It means, though, that Canute has caught Bjorn looking over his, and Bjorn tries to keep his eyes front.

There’s the smallest scrabble of sound at the other window—this is a building with two windows, and Bjorn is quartering in it; it still takes him by surprise—a sound like a squirrel, but Bjorn knows there are no squirrels here. They’re all eaten or dashed off to safer ground, and though it’s broad daylight, there is that same feeling as he had last night. Canute doesn’t notice it, but Bjorn edges back from the window, slowly, calmly, and he changes his grip on the spear he’s been using as a cane. He still can’t hang his sword at his hip the way he wants to—the weight is too much for his still-aching insides. But there is nothing wrong with his arm. The thin wooden shutter sways against its latch, as though there’s a draft, but today’s air is still, and Bjorn lets fly. The shutter explodes in a flurry of splintered wood, and there is the thunk of the point hitting solid wood.

Canute jumps, clutches at his chair, and Bjorn is reaching for his knife when Thorfinn’s face appears in the now-open window. He hoists himself in, glaring.

“Real fucking subtle, Pony.” He flicks a piece of splintered wood from his hair, and he smirks at Canute, white-knuckled at the table.

Askeladd appears just behind him, tosses aside a heavy shield sprouting the thrown spear. “But effective, and that’s the important thing.” He rests his elbows on the sill, grinning at Canute, who gapes like a fish. Bjorn is tempted, just for a moment, to throw his knife anyway.

He hears Canute’s inhale and exhale, the gathering of breath, and when he speaks, Bjorn is somehow proud.

“Explain yourself, Askeladd.” He flicks an inky sheet at Thorfinn, and Thorfinn only smudges the black spray on his cheek where he wipes it. “And I expect that you’ll replace my ruined pages.”

Askeladd grins wider. “I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise, Highness.” He props his chin in his hand, and Bjorn growls.

“What the hell was that?” He could have killed Thorfinn. The way Thorfinn looks so pleased with Canute’s disarray—now Bjorn sees that the inkwell was overturned, that Canute’s robe is darkened, his white fingers matching, a black streak in his yellow hair—Bjorn is a little disappointed that he didn’t.

Askeladd’s face turns serious, the shift so fast, and that unsettles Bjorn, too. It always has. But Askeladd answers his question.

“Making sure you’re good for the job.” Askeladd is looking at him, looking at him long and with those strange calculating eyes.

“I’ve always done everything you’ve asked.” He’s failed a few things he’s done on his own—the fight with Thors still tugs at his memory—but even to the brink of death, he’s done what Askeladd asked. Canute’s safe. Askeladd’s plan is safe. And there Askeladd grins again.

“That you have. And so I’m sorry to saddle you with something else.” Across the room, Thorfinn snorts, the sound suspiciously horse-like, and if he weren’t standing directly behind Canute—

Bjorn puts his eyes front again. “What?”

Askeladd doesn’t address the answer to him. Instead, he looks at Canute. “I can’t spare Thorfinn to be at your side all day, while we’re here, waiting. While we move, yes. But not in camp. So I’m posting Bjorn as guard.”

“And he’s not smart enough to know how fucking _boring_ it is sitting around watching you scribble,” Thorfinn says. Bjorn fights down the growl, but Canute seems to not have heard Thorfinn at all, his ink-smudged face turned only to Askeladd. Thorfinn looks disappointed, drags his fingers through the spilled ink and darkens the table more.

Canute nods. He says, “Move the bed,” and he points to the space at the foot of his own, between the door and the blue woolen curtain.

Bjorn opens his mouth to protest, but he closes it again. What would he say? He takes a step toward the bed, but Askeladd waves him off. Thorfinn ignores them all while Askeladd moves the bed by himself. He does it without effort, even moves Bjorn’s few things—cloak, sword, armor—beside it. Then he puts his hand on Bjorn’s shoulder. “Sorry. It’s not half as much fun as your old duties, I know, but I can trust you to keep him from getting his pretty royal throat cut.”

Thorfinn makes a dismissive noise, and he shoves Bjorn with his shoulder as he walks out. “Have fun babysitting,” he says.

Bjorn growls at him but he cannot say what he wants to, that it’s an honor, that he doesn’t think it’s a hardship. His words don’t come that quickly, and he’s not sure he wants to admit any of that, anyway. Askeladd gives him another apologetic look before leaving, too, and yes, Bjorn will let them think what they will.

He looks at Canute, but Canute is not looking at him. Canute is frowning at the long black stain on his robes, his darkened fingers, the smudge in his hair. The prince walks to the door, calls for water and a washtub.

Bjorn is not surprised to see men listen. Not only because at least hauling in water—and snow to melt—is something to do, but because there is that calm edge to Canute’s voice. Bjorn feels his own legs want to move, but no, he has another task now. He watches the two men—two of Thorkell’s, he doesn’t know their names—closely enough that he sees them hurry under his stare. Canute unnerves them, too, because he did what none of them would dare to do, making orders to Thorkell the Tall. Bjorn remembers London, and something in his chest swells, somehow, watching Canute now. Remembering Askeladd telling him about what Canute said.

Canute says nothing now, only waits for the water in the great kettle to warm. Bjorn knows he could tip it into the washtub for him, all at once, but not now, not yet. Soon. There is something meticulous and pleasing in watching Canute dip out water by half-bucketfuls, check the temperature with his inky fingers. When at last the washtub is full and steaming, Canute’s hands rest on the clasps of his tunic, and they pause.

“Could you hang a blanket in the window?” he asks—he _asks_ —and Bjorn is startled. But there is the broken shutter, the chill coming in, and he nods. He hangs the window with elkhide, and there are pegs to hold it already. That’s good. He’s no carpenter.

When he turns, Canute’s back is to him, but it is bare, white, narrow, tapering to an arse Bjorn thinks he could cover with one hand. He looks down fast, sees Canute’s clothes in a pile on the floor, and Bjorn’s stomach tightens. He stumps to the door, his hand on the latch because he needs to leave, but he chances one last glance over his shoulder and Canute is sunken into the water. One hand lifts to stay him.

“A man is most vulnerable when he bathes,” Canute says. And yes, they all know that too well. So Bjorn backs away from the door, and he cannot keep his shoulders turned, for all that he wants to, for all that he needs to.

He separates the room—what faces the door from what faces Canute—and no matter how he tries, that is where he is. And Canute won’t simply ignore him, won’t treat him like furniture, and Bjorn wishes he would. He doesn’t speak to Bjorn—not now—but he has an awareness that Bjorn can see, a kind of cool attentiveness in the odd glance, the way he scrubs at his fingers with the sharp-smelling soap. Bjorn watches as the black fades—not completely, but lightens on the skin. Bjorn turns his face away, looks at the floor, until Canute makes a frustrated noise.

Bjorn looks, and Canute is rubbing a dark smudge on his ribs, low and trailing down. Bjorn cannot see the end of the mark for the lap of the bathwater, but it means that the ink soaked in far, and there is a curiosity in seeing how much spilled. Bjorn looks, and Canute’s fingers drum up graying lather there, arching up so the soap isn’t washed away before it can clean. Bjorn _sees_ what he looks at too late: the thin, gold dust of water-darkened hair between the points of his hipbones. It’s so fair Bjorn thinks he wouldn’t even see it were it not for the way that some of the ink-tinted lather catches. When the sight sinks in, it is too late—Bjorn is _looking_ , because he has never seen anything like, not even on the palest women, such delicate, light cover, certainly never on a man. The water sloshes back up, though—Canute settling back down—and Bjorn sees the red tinge on his cheek before he turns the whole of himself toward the door. Bjorn’s shoulders heave, and his fingers dig into the bench beneath him.

For a while, there is only the crackling of the fire and the quiet sound of water. Then there is the drawing in of breath, and Canute says his name. When Bjorn looks, the blush has faded, but there is still a faint gray fleck on his cheek, and the dark spot in his hair has only grown longer.

Canute sees where his eyes are drawn. And he rubs the soap in his hair, scrubs at his cheek. “Tell me when it’s clean,” he says, and he holds the lock of hair forward, frowns at the still- graying lather.

Bjorn has no choice but to look again. He cannot help the glance down, and there is still a shade of stain on his stomach. He drags his eyes up, and Canute’s cheek is aflame with rubbing. “Stop,” he says. That fair skin might split with more.

Canute splashes water to wash away the soap, and yes, his cheek is clean now. His hair still holds a darkened patch, but Bjorn cannot take watching anymore. He takes the blanket from his bed and holds it out, so the prince can cover and dry himself. He seems to know his hair is not its uniform yellow—his eyes keep pulling to the side, as though he can see it even at the start, above his ear. But he is careful when he accepts the blanket, cloaks himself close in it even as he rises, so that Bjorn sees nothing more of him. A girlish modesty. It makes Bjorn want to look, and it makes no sense, not now nor before. Canute sits close to the fire, only huddled in the blanket for now. He glances at Bjorn.

“There’s no need to waste warm water, if you care to use it.” And then he does turn away, his back to the bath but one eye trained on the door. He combs his hair with his fingers, gently, patiently, though the scrubbing has gnarled it well.

Bjorn thinks first to refuse. But it is only recently that the wound has knit itself closed, and the feel of so long indoors itches under his clothes. He cannot say how long it has been since he has washed well—and certainly not when last he had a whole tub of heated water—it has been a long, hard winter.

“Thank you,” is what he says. His back is to Canute’s as he undresses, and lifting his right leg over the high washtub sides aches, but it is well worth the effort. Bending forward to dunk his head in the water hurts even more, but there is no room for him to dip his head back. Already his knees jostle the wood, but he will not complain. When he straightens, though, he cannot help the grunt. His body does not want to bend, and the skin that has knit feels like it wants to give. It won’t, not from this, but the tautness of the new scar is sharp enough to spike his breath. Canute glances at him. He says nothing, though, and Bjorn scrubs hard at his hair. He unbraids his beard, too, lathers it. He needs to shave. He’ll borrow Askeladd’s mirror in the morning.

The soap drifts off his fingers, and he breathes deep, but before he can bend forward again, Canute touches his shoulder. His hand is warm, and he is holding the bowl he heaped with snow those many days ago.

“Here,” he says. “Last night was strain enough.” He crouches beside the bath, scoops up water. Bjorn opens his mouth to say he is not strained, nothing is strained, but Canute’s hand touches the edge of his jaw, tips his head back, and then there is water running through his hair and down his back. Three more times it happens, the water starting to cool but it’s good because the room feels impossibly warm again, Canute’s fingers like a brand. The bowl rests on the bench now, but Canute doesn’t move away, and Bjorn doesn’t look behind him. The warm fingers land in the trenched scar over his shoulderblade, where the long knife stuck. It scarred deep, but the cut was all in flesh, stopped by the bone. Nothing particular. But now, now it feels very particular, and though Bjorn doesn’t remember the pain of getting the wound, the feel of Canute’s fingers there sears him.

Then the touch is gone, and Canute slips behind the blue curtain, the blanket held close around him. Bjorn breathes out long—breath he hadn’t realized he was holding—and washes the rest of himself. He is glad of the privacy, and it stretches out until Bjorn is well ready to get out of the water. He doesn’t want to dress while he’s wet all over, but even as he reaches for his pants anyway, Canute comes back into the main part of the room, wearing only a tunic and holding out the blanket. Bjorn takes the blanket, gathers it around himself, rubs himself dry, and Canute picks up his inky clothes, and Bjorn’s things, too. He drops all of them into the water, stirs it with one hand, holding his sleeve up with the other.

Bjorn keeps the blanket around himself, but offers Canute a corner to dry his hand. Bjorn’s mother said that that meant there would be a quarrel, two people drying with the same blanket, and his expression must change, because Canute dries, then looks up, glances at the bath, back at Bjorn.

His face is nearly an apology. “They’ll dry soon.”

Bjorn shrugs. “A wash won’t hurt.” He glances at the closed door, and there’s no light left below it, and the camp sounds are quiet now, deadened by a slow rain that will likely be ice where it lands. He misses it, the chill, and he stretches his bare legs out to the cool of the room. It feels nearly right on freshly washed skin. He looks at Canute. “They haven’t had a good rain in a while, so.” And the prince smiles his cat’s smile.

They hang the wet clothing to dry, and the priest has not come back. Bjorn thinks he had better not, not tonight, not if he wants to live out the night. He settles his sword unsheathed beside the bed, the spear upright against the wall. Canute slides into his own bed and combs his hair again with his fingers. The fire is banked for the night, and in the dim light, Bjorn can’t see where the inked spot was. But he can see that when Canute lies down—curled close against the cool in the room—he lies with his head on his pillow, as he should. Unafraid. Bjorn pulls the blue curtain between the beds, separates them, and there is a breath of sound, but no voiced word when he does it.

Bjorn covers himself only thinly, the blanket only over his middle, and he tucks the thick folds of sheepskin under his arm. The position eases some of the stretch in his stomach, and the straw beneath him rustles with the movement. He thinks he hears an echo of it, and when he stills, there is a slow, soft shifting from the place Canute lies. Bjorn breathes deep, tries to keep from listening for the final breathy hush. But it is his duty now to listen, even in sleep, to watch and wait, and it is not half the hardship he wishes it were.


End file.
